Echoes of Identity: The Path of Hyper-Westernization

"Caliban: You taught me language, and my profit on’t is I know how to curse. 

The red plague rid you for learning me your language!"

-William Shakespeare, The Tempest

"My sense of identity: everything I was born in and everything I chose," I mused, tracing the contours of my heritage like lines in an ancient manuscript. With a gentle sigh, I turned the pages of this history book on the silenced narratives, feeling the weight of generations past resting upon my shoulders. Each chapter unfolded like the turning of seasons, marked by the seismic tremors of hyper-westernization.

From the whispers of silk in ancient China to the bustling bazaars of the Middle East, from the diverse vibrant rhythms of Indian festivals to the serene beauty of Korea's Hanbok, oriental cultures flourished in the embrace of tradition and innovation. 

"Chapter One: The Temptation of Commodities in Dawn of Globalization 

The allure of Western commodities captivated us like a siren's song. From fast food to fashion, the promise of modernity cast its spell, tempting even the most steadfast guardians of tradition. As malls rose like monuments to consumerism, oriental markets faded into memory, replaced by the glossy facade of Western convenience."

Without a second thought, I delved into the text, understanding why these narratives were often ignored.

"Chapter Two: The Erosion of Tradition 

With each passing year, the erosion of tradition cuts deeper, like a river carving through stone. Ancient rituals and customs became relics of the past, demoted to the expression of nostalgia. As Western ideals of individualism and progress took root, the collective memory of oriental heritage began to fade. Undoubtedly, it's important to question the existing principles but equally important to have patience for the explanation."

I halted and thought, "But what even is the impact of culture loss?"  

And somewhere along the lines of the text, I found my answer,

"It hasn’t rained for a year. The trees are growing underground, sending reserves of roots into the dry land, roots like blades to cut through this new wind of globalization that is changing landscapes across continents. The roots define resistance, the pride embedded in culture, protecting the dignity and the sanctity of the land.

But that is the wrong script. Because my landscape is stripped bare of its cultural roots. Was this my choice?"

              

The narrator grew impatient and so did I as I flipped through the pages, searching for the chapter where it all changed. Fast forwarding to the end, there it was: 

"The Marginalization of Voices:

The voices from the oriental world grew fainter, drowned out by the clamour of Western superiority. From Hollywood to academia, the stories of oriental cultures were reduced to stereotypes and caricatures, perpetuating misconceptions and biases. As the gap widened between East and West, the dignity of oriental cultures hung in the balance, teetering on the edge of oblivion."

My heart sank at the text. Then, I saw a handwritten note, at the bottom of the page, probably from a reader who came before me:

“If you reached this far, note that even amidst this tumult of change, there are whispers of hope, like flickering candles in the darkness. For as much as hyper-westernization threatened to unravel the fabric of oriental identity, it also brought with it the seeds of transformation. The seeds that were needed and the transformation that helped. Time is forever changing and so are we.” 

As I moved towards the epilogue, there was none.

Where did it go? Or perhaps, it wasn't here at all as we haven’t reached there yet.

I found myself confronted with a paradox—a clash of ideals and desires that mirrored the complexities of the corners of my mind. On one hand, I enjoyed the comforts of Westernization—the sleek lines of modern architecture, trends of lifestyle, and the thrill of global connectivity. And yet, beneath the surface, there lingered a nagging sense of dissonance—a yearning for something lost, something ineffable.

As I grappled with the contradictions of my existence, I couldn't help but wonder: "Was my embrace of Western ideals a genuine expression of self, or merely a reflection of the pervasive influence of Western supremacy? Was my love for my ideals, my taste palette and designer clothes an affirmation of my autonomy or a surrender to the dictates of cultural imperialism?"

In the end, I was left with more questions than answers—a tangled web of contradictions and uncertainties. And yet, amidst the chaos, there remained a glimmer of possibility—a chance to reclaim the narrative, to redefine the boundaries of identity on my terms.

For Modernization is not synonymous with Westernization, nor is tradition the sole province of the East. In the mosaic of global culture, there exists infinite shades of grey—a spectrum of experiences and perspectives waiting to be explored.

And so, as I closed this book of history, I found myself standing at the crossroads of past and future, poised on the edge of possibility. With each step forward, I carried with me the echoes of identity—the whispers of ancestors, the dreams of generations yet to come.

And though the path ahead may be uncertain, I walked it with head held high, secure in the knowledge that my roots were not a burden to be borne, but a legacy to be celebrated.